by Nina Wright
I said, “MacArthur, I know you’re a cleaner, a Realtor, and a volunteer bodyguard. But would you mind taking Susan’s bags to-“
“I know where her room is.” MacArthur swept the bags off the pavement. He told Jeb, “We need to formulate a strategy for maximum efficiency. Meet you inside, at the concession stand, in five.”
“What about me and my strategy?” I said.
“Carry on,” MacArthur said.
“Carry on… with what? I don’t have a strategy. I have a missing dog.”
“Then we’ll make a place for you in our strategy,” MacArthur said. “And together we’ll find your dog.”
“We only have to try to find her,” I assured him.
He jogged off with the luggage as if it weighed nothing at all.
I waited for Jeb to finally greet me in an appropriate manner. By now, my initially warm-if not steamy-response to his arrival had cooled. It was well on its way to downright frosty.
Jeb correctly read my emotional temperature.
“Hey,” he said, making no move.
“Hey, yourself.”
We locked eyes as if daring each other to reach out and touch. Neither of us stirred.
“Feel better?” he said finally.
“Compared to what?”
“Last night. I thought you were sick.”
“Right.” I made him wait. “I was sick this morning, too. But now I just have indigestion. All the time.”
Too much information. If Jeb hadn’t killed the romantic mood with his attitude toward Susan, I had slain it with gastric references.
“Sorry to hear that,” he said.
“Are you?”
“Sure, I am. I like a girl with a healthy appetite.”
“For what?”
Jeb smiled carefully. I smiled carefully back.
“What’s going on with you and Susan?” I said, trying to sound neutral.
Okay, maybe there was a slight tone. A slightly hostile tone.
Jeb’s smile flickered out like a dead flashlight. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Hewwo, Jeb!”
We were saved from a fight by none other than Dr. David and Deely. They had put down their protest signs and were waving at my ex-husband.
Jeb said. “Hey, David! Hey, Deely! How’s the animal rights biz?”
After they’d exchanged pleasantries, Dr. David announced that he was sorry to hear about the latest shooting.
“Proof of man’s violent ways,” he said in his own unique speech pattern. “And why Fleggers protects and preserves the rights of innocent creatures. Fortunately, Silverado saved himself.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“We saw him leave.”
“Leave? How?”
“In the back of a Ford pickup, ma’am,” Deely replied.
Dr. David supplied the details. “There was apparently human intervention, but the dog left via his own free will. We witnessed him leaping into the truck bed, unleashed and unassisted.”
“Did you see the human?” Jeb asked.
Dr. David shook his head. “We heard barking and looked over in time to see a dog fitting Silverado’s description sail into the back of the truck. The driver was already in the cab. He sped out of here, tires squealing.”
“How did you know about Silverado?” I said.
“MacArthur came over to talk to us when the helicopter landed,” Deely explained. “He described the missing dog, and we told him what we saw. We’ll tell the police, too. When they get here.”
“Where exactly was this Ford pickup, and what color was it?” I said.
Deely pointed to the corner of the Barnyard Inn, not far from room 17. Kori’s room. “It was silver, ma’am. Kind of like the dog. Sorry I couldn’t see the license plate.”
“You think a man was driving?” I asked.
Deely looked to Dr. David for his input. Neither one could be sure.
“We heard a man’s voice coming from the truck,” the vet declared. “He shouted, ‘In, boy!’ and the dog jumped aboard.”
“In case you’re keeping score,” I said, “we now have two missing dogs-one well-trained, and one hardly trained at all. Seen Kori Davies lately?”
I was thinking about her man-like voice.
Deely said, “She stopped to talk to us just before the first helicopter left.”
“That’s right,” Dr. David recalled. “She was on her way back to her room to pack. She said she was through with dog shows. Forever.”
“She wished us luck with our mission,” Deely said. “And made a generous donation.”
“Every protest secures another victory,” Dr. David declared. “In her case, a complete conversion, from animal handler to animal advocate.”
I was sure Kori had done it just to piss off Susan. Or to give herself an alibi.
“Did you tell MacArthur you saw Kori?” I said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Deely said. “But he didn’t seem interested.”
I suspected that Kori interested MacArthur very much, and not just for her kisses. He would make the same connections I did: The truck was parked by Kori’s room and driven by someone with a manly voice. Dr. David and Deely last saw Kori before the first helicopter left. She wanted them to remember seeing her, so she made a donation. In the confusion of the chopper’s departure, Kori might have left her room and helped someone steal Silverado. True, I hadn’t seen her in the exhibit hall, and she was too compactly built to be mistaken for the man I’d glimpsed in silhouette. But that didn’t exempt her from a role in the dog’s disappearance.
I had never believed MacArthur’s story about Kori excusing herself to advise her twelve-step group sponsoree. Why would he lie or be receptive to her lies except for the only and obvious reason that men get stupid around women: s-e-x.
Kori would never hurt a dog, so that was not a worry. If she took Silverado, either she had found a better home for him, or she planned to keep him herself. But how would she earn a living without Uncle Liam’s support?
Something else didn’t fit. Kori had claimed to like Matt best among all the handlers. On that point she had seemed sincere. Why would she participate in a crime that resulted in his death? Was that part an accident? Or had Kori’s partner in this venture kept the real agenda a secret?
Chapter Thirty-One
Dr. David and Deely had something going on that Jeb and I didn’t: a damned good time. Although they officially opposed almost everything happening at the Barnyard Inn, they did so with joy and affection. I saw them exchange cutely covert kisses before rejoining their Flegger ranks. Jeb and I hadn’t touched since he’d landed.
Just in case the chill between us was even remotely my fault, I decided to melt it. I reached for Jeb’s hand as we approached the exhibit hall main entrance. Unfortunately, at the very second I would have made skin-on-skin contact, the double glass doors flew open and out dashed a red-faced Chester, swinging the plastic cat carrier. I couldn’t help but notice that its grated gate was flapping wide open. And Chester was flanked by two bounding hounds.
“Whoa, buddy!” Jeb said, positioning himself to catch my small neighbor.
There’s no way to catch flying Afghan hounds. But I did track which way they went. Straight into the cornfield.
“What’s going on?” I said.
“Yoda-I mean Boomgarden!” Chester panted. “When Perry Stiles took him out of the carrier to verify his identity, Boomgarden got startled by a hound! He clawed Perry, who dropped him on the dog’s head. The dog reared up and bolted around the arena like a wild horse. Every Afghan hound that wasn’t secured joined in. There are at least five dogs running loose inside. And two more outside!”
He’d no sooner spoken than the Two L’s burst out of the arena dangling dog-less leashes and looking angrier than any bluebloods I’d ever seen.
“They went that-away!” I said, pointing helpfully toward the cornfield.
They bounded off without bothering to say thanks. I wond
ered how the hell they thought they could catch hounds inside those tall walls.
“The place has gone crazy,” Chester said, glancing back at the arena.
“Courtesy of Yoda,” I said. “Before that cat arrived, every dog here was the perfect anti-Abra!”
“That is correct,” Susan Davies announced.
She had followed the Two L’s out the front door and now stood glowering at me. She was also towering over me-a feat made possible only because I was crouching next to Chester.
“Whiskey, the time has come for me, as Chair of the Breeder Education Committee, to invite you to leave.”
When I straightened to my full height, I saw that Susan had brought reinforcements. Behind her, melodramatically leaning on what appeared to be an ivory cane but was probably a plastic theatrical prop, stood Ramona.
“You’ve been more than accommodating in providing us with bad examples,” Ramona said. “In fact, you’ve managed to inspire utter chaos. Please leave immediately. And take your trouble-making little friend with you.”
Melodramatically, she pointed her cane at Chester.
“Thank you so much,” I said, “for finally acknowledging my existence! Because now- Chester, please cover your ears-you’ve made it possible for me to say what I’ve wanted to say since the moment we met: Fuck off!”
Before Ramona or Susan could respond, MacArthur emerged from the arena with four wild-eyed Afghan hounds on leashes.
“I’m pleased to return your dogs,” he thundered. “Ramona, kindly take Laughing Moon’s Son of Flavio and Ego Narcissus. Susan, here are your bitches, Debbani’s Whiter Shade of Pale and Taji Crystal Chandelier. They sorely lack training with felines. May I suggest that next year your own hounds should be your Bad Examples.“
MacArthur loomed ominously large. The only reason I didn’t tremble was that he was on my side. Ramona and Susan flinched as they accepted their AWOL Afghans. We watched them retreat stiffly toward the Barnyard Inn.
Then Chester leapt up and high-fived the cleaner. I joined in.
“Good news,” MacArthur announced. “Perry Stiles convinced Boomgarden to come down from the display curtain. They’re making nice with each other now.”
To Jeb he said, “We can review our strategy options over a cuppa. You can eat if you want. Stay away from the burgers, though.”
I cleared my throat. “Um, what about my strategy? After all, Abra is my Bad Example.”
Annoyance flickered in the cleaner’s eyes, but he recovered quickly.
“Of course, Whiskey! We’ll come up with something you can handle while Jeb and I track the killer.”
“I thought Jeb was here to help me pretend to be looking for Abra.”
Because that sounded awful, and Chester was listening, I added, “During those rare moments when I’m not looking for her by myself. High and low.”
“Indeed,” MacArthur agreed amiably. “We’ll begin by reviewing our strategies, starting with my own wee list.”
From the hip pocket of his jeans, MacArthur withdrew a piece of yellow paper folded to the size of a postage stamp. He opened it deliberately, coughed softly, and read, “Power.”
After a beat I said, “What?”
Chester frantically waved his right hand, an “A” student competing for the teacher’s attention. When MacArthur called on him, he said, “When we know who caused the power outage, we’ll be close to knowing who killed Matt the handler and took Silverado the dog!”
“Excellent!” MacArthur declared.
“That’s not fair,” I said. “Chester wasn’t even here when it happened. He got that answer from somebody inside!”
The eight-year-old adjusted his deputy badge and stood as tall as possible. “Whoever perpetrated this double crime is somebody close to the victims. Somebody participating in the show.”
“You always hurt the ones you love,” Jeb chimed in, gazing at me.
“Or hate,” I said.
We were about to adjourn to the concession area for the remainder of our strategy session when we heard what sounded like cries of frustration and calls for help. Female voices were coming from the cornfield. MacArthur, followed by Jeb and Chester, sprinted toward the wall of stalks.
“It’s only the Two L’s!” I reminded them, implying that the lost souls weren’t worthy of rescue.
“Keep shouting! We’ll talk you in!” MacArthur informed the stranded handlers.
“I’m over here!” Lauren or Lindsey cried out.
“And I’m here! Right here!” the other L shouted.
A dog or two barked, also. The women had found their hounds but lost each other, as well as their way back. MacArthur, Jeb and Chester enthusiastically called them in as I leaned against the building and observed. It made for a fascinating study in male ego-fluffing. Even one as young as Chester swelled with importance and pride at the prospect of rescuing damsels in distress.
I reflected on my own brushes with danger and wanted to call out to the Two L’s that I’d stared down the barrel of a gun. They were scared of corn rows! Proof that upper-class chicks are wimps.
When the Two L’s emerged from the field, their ash blonde hair and dark suits were dusted with yellow-brown flakes and tendrils. So were their hounds.
“It’s a jungle in there!” Lauren said.
Ever the job-conscious handler, she whipped out a pin brush and immediately set to work on her bitch. Lindsey did likewise. The guys waited for acknowledgment of their manly achievement. As if being loud and obnoxious wasn’t something boys enjoyed, anyway. But the Two L’s were too refined to thank the little people, and I’m not referring only to Chester.
Seeing the handlers expertly wield those brushes brought a question to mind.
“Excuse me,” I said, approaching Lindsey. “I’m wondering if you can tell me which is more common: for one of those pin bristles to stick in a hound’s coat after grooming or to the groomer’s own clothes?”
“No professional would leave debris in her hound’s coat. Nor would she fail to brush off her own clothing before entering the ring.”
“Of course,” I said, backpedaling. “But how about someone who wasn’t a professional. Could they make a mistake like that?”
“Kori Davies does it all the time,” Lauren sniped. “She’s a loser.”
“She won her round this morning,” I pointed out.
“Even a broken clock is right twice a day,” said Lindsey.
Both handlers turned their attention back to their hounds. I could tell that the guys and I had blinked out of their consciousness like stars in the dawn sky. But MacArthur’s somber face told me he got the point: If the pin brush bristle he’d found by the side door was a clue at all, it wouldn’t lead us to a canine professional. More like a hired gun. Or Kori.
Chapter Thirty-Two
While we were occupied with the Two L’s, a swarm of patrol cars arrived at the Barnyard Inn. Two murders in two days had to be bad for Amish Country tourism.
According to the food concessionaire, the first officers on the scene had ordered a lockdown of the exhibit hall only to discover that a third of the show’s participants had already scattered. Detectives and forensics team members were doing the best they could to analyze a “compromised” crime scene.
“At least Afghan hounds are quiet,” the concessionaire remarked. “If this had happened last week, during the Bassett hound specialty, you wouldn’t be able to hear yourself think.”
I nodded. Except we all knew this would never happen around Basset hounds.
Over cola and nachos for Chester, Jeb, and MacArthur-and ginger ale for me-MacArthur laid out his strategy. He and Jeb would track down every breeder or handler “of interest” and ask where he or she had been, and whom he or she had seen, around the time of all three shootings: Mitchell’s, Ramona’s, and Matt’s.
I pointed out the flaw in that plan: “Some breeders or handlers-like, oh, say, Kori, for instance-are already gone.”
MacArthur said, “Nobody
saw Kori go. I’m sending Jeb to her room.”
At least he was willing to solicit a second opinion instead of asking us to rely solely on his. Let’s say Kori was still there. Even if she was a superb kisser, I knew Jeb wouldn’t fall under her spell. He liked his women slender and feminine. Like Susan.
Which reminded me.… “Who’s going to interview the Breeder Education Committee? And it can’t be Jeb.”
As I glared at my ex, both MacArthur and Chester volunteered for the job.
“Back to the power issue,” MacArthur said. “The electrical outage, that is. Here’s how I plan to investigate.” He pointed to the female sheriff’s deputy I had met last night, now getting a complimentary cup of coffee from the concession stand. “Whiskey, go ask her what happened.”
So I did. And it was almost that simple although the cop seemed slightly wary. Maybe because of my questions, maybe because I’d been near two different men who were shot to death. After asking me a few dozen questions of her own, the deputy told me what she knew about the power outage.
“Somebody pulled the plug.”
I waited for the rest of the story, but that was essentially it.
“This place must have been wired by somebody’s nephew,” the deputy said. “It’s not even close to being up to code. Anybody who could follow a line could find their way to the circuit box and cut the power with a couple flicks of their wrist. I’m going to bust the building inspector.”
She was sufficiently P.O.’d at that township official to show me the inferior set-up. Even I, whose knowledge of electricity was limited to flipping a wall switch, could see that this didn’t look right. A mare’s nest of heavy black cables fed into stacks of industrial-sized power strips under an outdated circuit box.
“So the only thing someone had to know was the location of the power source,” I mused.
The deputy nodded. “And to do that, all he’d have to do is follow the black cables.”
She was right. I’d been so preoccupied with hounds and shootings that I hadn’t noticed the obvious electrical lines crisscrossing the arena floor. The only area free of floor cables was the show ring.
